On the Morning of My Wedding Day: Reflections
by BelleLitteraire
Summary: Sybil muses on life before she marries Tom.


Dedication

_To the talented MissPixieWay: You are the Carson to my Mary. Thank you for boosting my confidence!_

* * *

I wake to the trill of birds outside the window. Sunlight peeks in through the slats of the shutters, narrow bars of illumination like the tines of a golden fork. The house is still, the calm before the storm of guests and family descends. I take a deep breath, looking around my room (Tom's room) and I want to mark that today, no one has come to rouse me, or to draw my curtains open. There is no bell for me to pull, no one to help me dress. This is also the last morning I will awake alone.

Today is my wedding day.

I lie in semi-darkness a few moments longer, savoring the warmth and solitude, counting back the seven weeks that I've been here in my newly adopted home. It's almost as long as my last adventure in York. But it's the farthest away as I've ever been – a country away from Mama and Papa, my friends, and all the people at Downton I've known my whole life. I recall the time so long ago when I threatened my father that I'd run away, and will he be ever sorry! In my mind's eye I see my father's face, the once livid but softening expression as he said, "I should be sorry. Very sorry indeed." The memory of it puts a lump in my throat and I turn my face onto my pillow.

I groan. I'd almost forgotten how sore my shoulders still feel. I rise slowly and tentatively stretch. My back still aches dully, every muscle in my arms still sings with fatigue, the result of the repetitive motions of washing and scrubbing.

* * *

When Tom had arrived for dinner three nights ago he was greeted by a disheveled, damp, and grimy bride-to-be.

"You look fetching," he said as he kissed me.

"Thank you," I laughed. "Get used to it because I don't imagine I shall be dressed in satin or brocade for dinner anymore."

Chuckling, he settled into a kitchen chair and looked around. "Is Ma here?"

"She's in the garden, gathering herbs for dinner."

Tom frowned. "How was your day?"

I explained how his mother and I took down all the curtains in the house, washed, dried, ironed, and then re-hung them. As I breathlessly related the day-long project, Tom grew visibly provoked. I was in the middle of describing how I almost burned myself heating the sole plate when Tom's hand closed over mine. "What is Ma making you do, Sybil? I didn't think that the household training was going to begin in such earnest. Maybe I should ask her to ease up on you."

"Oh, Tom, you know we have to prepare the house for the reception. It really is quite a task but we are managing it. We are tackling the floors tomorrow." I smiled, my eyes twinkling. "It's actually not bad. I'm learning a lot, and you know I'm not afraid of work."

He calmed and then shook his head. "I don't know whether to be annoyed or amused. You almost sound excited to be scrubbing floors. But it's good for me to hear that you're getting on with Ma."

**x-x**

My relationship with Mrs. Branson wasn't really quite that harmonious – at least at first! I didn't dare tell Tom the awful truth of what it was like with his mother those first few weeks. It was like putting two snarling lionesses in a ring and waiting to see which one would kill the other first. From what Tom told me in the days before our departure for Dublin, I'd already formed an impression about Mrs. Branson – strong willed and bluntly honest. When I met her she was everything I expected, but she was also proud, hardworking, and she loved Tom as much as I did. I was determined to show her I was capable, and that she wasn't going to lose her son to a lazy and entitled rich girl. But I formed an impression on her too. One night, not long after our arrival, I was settling upstairs in Tom's room and I overheard her.

"And a real piece of work you brought to me, Tommy! You expect me to train her up like I would any of our local girls who are trying for a place in service!"

Tom sounded weary. "Ma, please. Don't talk about Sybil like that. And lower your voice, please."

"I don't care if she hears," Mrs. Branson spat. Now I knew where Tom got his own fiery temper. "For Christ's sake, never mind that I think she's useless. She can't cook. She can't clean. What kind of a wife is she? So how do you know that she's in it for the long haul, my love? How do you know she won't find living here hard, that it's very different from that castle she's been living in?" I only heard muffling sounds from Tom.

"She's not even bloody Catholic!" Mrs. Branson crisply continued, clearly not swayed by Tom's response. "I did what you asked, Tom, and it was only with the promise of a _generous _fee to Father Farry at St. Andrew that we can have the banns announced. And God knows where we're getting that money." More muffled sounds from Tom, and then silence.

Mrs. Branson spoke again, but her tone softened. "Father Farry can announce them after four weeks. Ah, you're such a dreamer, Tommy. I just don't want your heart to be broken again."

**x-x**

I deferred my plan of searching for nursing work and instead resolutely applied myself in the days and weeks that followed to domestic lessons. She grumbled and swore under her breath that I was a bothersome project. It took all of me to control my temper in response to Mrs. Branson's harsh critiques and sometimes mean-spirited comments. (Her favorite and most often used line: "Can't you do anything right, _Lady_ Sybil?") Well, Sybil, I told myself, you have gone through all this before: in the Downton kitchen, at the training college, so why not in Ireland? Mrs. Patmore was sweetness and diplomacy itself compared to Mrs. Branson when I tried to get the hang of gravy-making. But, oh, there were times I just really wanted to throw a wooden spoon at her head whenever she screeched at me.

One morning, my own patience was pushed to its limits. Mrs. Branson directed me to take all the area rugs outside and beat them. I felt like a boiling teakettle whose steam was trapped. I knew she had a vacuum cleaner, so why was I being told to beat the wretched rugs? I looked at those eyes, eyes Tom inherited, but I saw no love in them. I forced a smile and got on with hanging the rugs outside. I gave them such a whipping that Mrs. Branson came out, smirking, "Well, dear, I think you gave those rugs a thorough cleaning."

My deference and my perseverance were rewarded at last, for one evening, after we washed the dishes and Tom had gone for the night to his brother's, we settled into our evening ritual of mending. But instead of socks and shirts, Mrs. Branson pulled out a length of fine mesh. "Sybil, would you stand here so I can measure out a length for your veil?" I stood in front of her and our eyes met. I waited for her to speak. "I was thinking of decorating it with some fine Irish crochet lace, but it might be too ambitious, and seeing that we don't have a lot of time, perhaps a Limerick style might do."

I was really touched by her kindness. "Thank you, Mrs. Branson."

* * *

My gaze falls on the finished veil hanging on the closet door, next to my gown. I walk over to touch the ethereal slip of fabric, the tiny swirls of ivory that adorn the edges. For many nights, while I practiced plain sewing, I watched Tom's mother painstakingly creating patterns of petals and leaves. The hands that during the day energetically mixed, kneaded, scrubbed or washed, at night became gentler as they worked carefully and skillfully on my veil. Now as I run my own fingers over the delicate embellishments I think how proud I would be to have her son touch it himself when he lifts it from my face. A surge of excitement fills me and I go to the window to open the shutters, letting in a shower of light and a whisper of a breeze. It is a glorious day, and I can hear Father Farry's parting words to me and Tom after last Sunday's Mass, when the third and final banns were read: "If the sky is sunny on your wedding day you will have good luck." The air is faintly fragrant of flowers and cut grass and I smile again at the promise of the day ahead.

I sit at my makeshift vanity table: Tom's old writing desk and chair, with a small mirror propped atop the desk against the wall. I caress the jewellery I will wear today, tokens of blessings from Mama and Mary.

* * *

My sisters had arrived yesterday in the early morning and Tom and I met them at the dock. I was fully expecting them both to be exhausted from the long journey, but Edith was in high spirits. She kissed me hello and then started to call Tom "Branson." She hesitated and looked to me for guidance.

"Edith, you can call him Tom," I said. Tom added reassuringly, "If you feel comfortable doing so, Milady." Edith brightened and from that moment they became on first-name terms.

Mary was a different matter. Her lips just curled up in greeting but the seriousness in her eyes didn't change. She told me she was glad I looked well. To Tom she nodded, but unlike Edith, chose to continue to call him by his surname.

We gave them the rest of the morning to settle at the hotel, and in the afternoon, Tom drove me back to spend the day with them. He kissed me goodbye and wished me a good time. We planned to have luncheon, visit the surrounding shops, and finally pick up my wedding gown from the dressmaker's. Tom would then return to take us back home for tea.

I thought of how I'd need a whole lot of luck if Mary was going to be in a mood. I girded myself mentally for battle. If Mary was going to be petulant for this entire visit, let her – I refuse to budge. I was about to be a married woman, and it was high time that Mary started treating me like an adult.

Luncheon was strained, and it was clear Edith – like her position of birth – was valiantly trying to bridge that awkwardness between Mary and me. Fine, I thought, if she's going to be that way, determined to be a spoilsport, then I was going to focus on Edith, who was helpfully keeping me in the spirit of things. As we walked around the shopping district I was glad to play tour guide to Edith's tourist. She had never been anywhere farther than London and was genuinely interested in the sights of Dublin, and my anecdotes of when Tom had shown me around. Mary's contribution to the excursion was an occasional quip that only she thought was clever.

Finally we arrived at the dress shop. I was more thrilled to see my finished dress than I was when I first saw my blue peacock _jupe-culottes_! As I showed off my wedding gown, a dress that a fairy princess would be jealous of, Edith exclaimed, "Oh Sybil, how lovely you look!"

"Thank you, darling," I beamed.

Mary sniped, "Mama would have ordered you a much more fashionable one from Worth. And what about your veil? We should have thought before about your coronet or tiara."

"Mrs. Branson is making my veil," I replied – with extreme patience. "It has the most beautiful lace design."

"Really?" Mary arched her brow. "She's stitching it by hand? Surely you should have taken advantage of the more readily available lace to get the veil done faster."

"And as for a tiara or a coronet," I began, trying to keep my temper in check, "I'm not getting married at Westminster, so I really don't think it would be missed if I didn't wear one."

Mary sighed and rolled her eyes. Edith intervened, "Honestly, Mary, it's Sybil's moment—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, thank you," Mary snapped back and left the shop.

**x-x**

Later, during tea, Mary was polite but mostly silent. Edith and Mrs. Branson got on surprisingly well – I felt a dart of envy at how easily my sister and future mother-in-law commiserated, giggled, and basically acted as though I wasn't in the room. As for Mary, I willed myself not to shoot daggers at her. When Edith expressed enthusiastic interest in seeing Mrs. Branson's herb garden, and the two excused themselves to go out back, Mary and I were left in the sitting room. After a moment, Mary asked to come up to my room.

I showed her in, explaining it was Tom's old room. "Well," she said and her eyes surveyed the room. I could imagine her comparing the neat single bed, the practical, plain dresser and the lack of a vanity table and bric-a-brac to my room at Downton. Well, there are no urn-like biscuit jars or fresh cut flowers in great vases here. Her heels tapped loudly on the hardwood floor, no Persian rugs to muffle her steps. I motioned for her to take the chair and I sat on the bed. She came over and sat next to me on the bed, clutching her small purse. "I'd like to show you something," she said, and drew out a small jewellery roll from the bag. She opened it and offered me her large pearl drop earrings. I knew they were one of her favorite jewel pieces – she wore them often to dinner. The earrings lay on her palm, a white flag for the battle of wills she lost. "I'd be honored if you'd wear them tomorrow," she said.

Tears welled in my eyes and I clasped her fiercely to me. "Of course I will."

She lifted a jewel comb from the roll. "From Mama. She really wanted to come, Sybil, but she's not quite up to making the crossing."

I was overwhelmed by the presence of her and Edith, so grateful that they made the long trek here, but I also felt a twinge of sadness because of the absence of the others I loved. "I'm so happy you're here, Mary. Both you and Edith. It really means so much to me. I only wish…" I sighed.

"I can't say that I'm completely supportive of this marriage, Sybil. I'd hoped that you'd find someone else, someone worthy of you—"

At that I automatically became defensive. "Tom _is _worthy of me," I interrupted hotly. Was I doomed to continually defend Tom to my family?

Mary closed her eyes and held up her hand. "Let me finish. I mean it will be difficult in society, you know…" she trailed off, and then I knew she was not talking about my reception at court or in London. "Oh Sybil. My life makes me angry. But that doesn't mean I ought to be angry about yours." She paused, took my hand. "You've always been such a rebel, darling. I suppose it is fitting that your marrying Branson is yet another statement of your rebellion."

"Mary, I don't want to continue to repeat myself, so at the risk of sounding melodramatic or overly poetic – which I know you can't stand – I cannot live without him. If I wasn't with him, I would wither away and I do not want to live a soul-crushing existence without him." Mary kept quiet but she was staring at me with an intensity that was a little unnerving, so I looked away. "And I'm not marrying him just to annoy you or everybody else," I finished.

Mary nodded gravely, still saying nothing. Then: "I'd like to think that Papa and Granny would want to be here for you. I'd like to think you believe that. You are family."

Now it was my turn to stay silent – the heaviness in my chest was making it hard for me to breathe or speak.

Mary suddenly laughed, breaking the tension. "Do you remember when we first talked about him? When I said that you'd marry the chauffeur and we'd come to tea?" We burst into a fit of laughter so hard we almost fell back onto the bed. At that moment Edith knocked and peeked her head in. "What in heaven's name is going on? Tom is ready to drive us back, Mary."

* * *

I look down at the final piece of jewellery on the table. It is the most cherished piece I will wear, for Tom gave it to me.

* * *

Last night, he returned to the house after driving Mary and Edith to the hotel. We were in the sitting room, and Mrs. Branson was giving me her assessment of my sisters: "Lady Edith is a charming wonder! She has the gift of gab. I'm not quite decided about Lady Mary. Did the crossing not agree with her? Or is she normally sour?"

"Ma," Tom warned. He was leaning casually against the entryway, arms crossed. Was this room getting warm? I fidgeted, smiling weakly at him. When he smiled back, his dimple deepened, and my temperature began to rise a little higher.

"Well, I suppose you want to be alone for a bit," Mrs. Branson eyes narrowed as she looked at us. "Right, I'm going to have a look at the front yard and make sure it's tidy for tomorrow, but I'm leaving the door ajar and I will be back in five minutes."

When we were finally alone Tom came over to me. "Hello," he said, pulling me to him. The taste of him awakens a thirst I'd forgotten in days. He smells so clean and I can't get enough air into my lungs. We part, both of us breathing like we've been running – the air between us electric.

Still in his warm embrace, I settle my head on his shoulder. He said, "I felt like I was back at my old job, driving everyone about today."

I laughed, "Did you? Oh, dear. I'm sorry you had to witness all the cattiness again."

"Everything all right?" he asked, stroking my back.

"Yes, especially now," I fought to swallow the lump forming in my throat. With all the activity of the past few days – weeks even – I realized how much I missed being alone with him, the nearness of him, and I blink back the tears threatening to fall.

"I'm glad to hear it. Are you looking forward to becoming Mrs. Branson tomorrow?"

"I am, rather," I said happily and I kissed him. "Although the thought of your mother and me having the same name makes me a little queasy."

Tom threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Oh God help me. Well, let's sit my love. I want to give you something before my mother comes back in."

We sat down on the sofa and he pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. "Here. For tomorrow."

I undid the box clasp and was enchanted by the tiny pearl-encrusted horseshoe pin nestled in the soft folds of velvet. "Oh, it's so lovely, Tom. But you—"

"Don't ask me how much it cost. It's for luck. When you pin it on make sure it points up to hold in the good luck. If it points down, it's considered bad luck."

"Well," I said. "Thank you, Mr. Branson. We wouldn't want to start out our long life together unluckily."

"I'm coming back in!" called Ma Branson from outside.

Tom leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. He whispered, "You know, after tonight, we will never have to part at night again."

* * *

My husband clasps my hand, like he did the first time many summers ago, and the soft, barely audible clink of our rings seals my promise, my bond to him. I feel like I've drunk a magic elixir and when I look into the eyes of my Tom, eyes the color of the sky on this blessed day, my heart dances a pirouette. And I can see my own joy, my hopes, my dreams – my future – reflected back in those eyes.


End file.
